


Motion

by Anonymous



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Motion Sickness, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-15
Updated: 2019-11-15
Packaged: 2021-01-31 00:03:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21436879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: London hasn't even entirely disappeared in the rearview when Crowley starts to feel vaguely unwell.(fill for a "Crowley & carsickness" prompt on the Good Omens kink meme)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 66
Collections: Good Omens Kink Meme Anonymous





	Motion

Aziraphale is waiting for Crowley outside his flat in a nondescript beige rental car. He'd finally begun - nearly a century behind the times, no surprise there - learning to drive several months ago, but this marks the first time he'd absolutely insisted on leaving the Bentley behind and driving them himself. It's not necessarily what Crowley would prefer - Aziraphale follows 100% of traffic laws to the letter - but Aziraphale had dug his heels in for some reason. Always so stubborn, once he's made up his mind.

Aziraphale greets him with a kiss and a paper cup of strong coffee from a cafe that'd opened just the week before. He eases the car out into traffic and turns south, taking them through the city at the posted speed limits and not a kilometre above. It takes approximately an eternity to reach the outskirts of London and beyond - at least, compared to Crowley's usual pace - which must be the reason he finds himself feeling a bit restless, even as he laughs with Aziraphale about a particularly tenacious would-be customer who'd been waiting outside for the shop to open that morning.

"I don't think he'll be back," Aziraphale says, with a smile that's just this side of self-satisfied. Crowley doesn't doubt him, and says so.

London hasn't even entirely disappeared in the rearview when Crowley starts to feel vaguely unwell. The coffee isn't sitting well in his stomach, and there's a slight headache starting to pulse at his temples. It's not distracting enough to be worth worrying about, so he just slouches down a little more in his seat, listens to Aziraphale talk, and waits for the discomfort to pass.

It doesn't. It turns into nausea, instead, and as they leave the city farther and farther behind Crowley finds it increasingly difficult to pay attention - let along properly contribute - to the conversation. He lapses into silence, after a time, and focuses on taking slow, deep breaths to calm his churning stomach. This particular corporation isn't prone to motion sickness, but he can't think of another reason to be feeling so ill.

"Are you all right?" Aziraphale asks, taking his eyes off the road for no more than a second. "You look terribly pale."

"Fine," Crowley lies, but not five minutes later his stomach lurches alarmingly as Aziraphale guides the car smoothly around a deep bend in the road. He swallows hard - once, twice, then again - against the nausea rising in his throat, and presses the fingers of one hand to his mouth. A cold sweat dampens his brow, and Crowley comes to the abrupt realisation that he's going to be sick.

"Crowley," Aziraphale starts again. "You really don't look--"

"Pull over," Crowley interrupts, and Aziraphale immediately - and wordlessly - does. Crowley means to scramble out of the car once it comes to a stop, but only gets as far as swinging the door open before leaning over and throwing up onto the gravel at the side of the road. It's nothing more than coffee and bile, but it burns his throat coming up.

He's still coughing when he feels Aziraphale's hand on his back, stroking up and down his spine. Once he's managed to catch his breath he sits up again with a quiet groan, and takes off his sunglasses to rub a hand over his face. There's an awful, sour taste in his mouth; when he opens his eyes, Aziraphale is holding out a bottle of water that definitely hadn't been in the car before. Crowley takes a sip, and sighs in relief when it stays down.

"Did you forget to sober up last night?" Aziraphale asks. "When I left, you hadn't, yet."

"Didn't forget," Crowley says, and chooses not to mention that it had been a rather close call - he'd nodded off on the sofa after kissing Aziraphale goodnight, and had woken only long enough to sober up and put himself properly to bed. "I'm just," he starts, then stops to take another cautious sip of water. "Just - ngh - a bit carsick."

"More than a bit, I think."

Crowley can't argue with that. He can, however, argue with the trace of guilt he notices, now, in Aziraphale's eyes. "Don't," he says, before Aziraphale can speak. "You didn't know. _I_ didn't know." 

Crowley expects Aziraphale to comment, anyway, but after a few seconds he just sighs and nods. "Do you want to go home?"

"No," says Crowley, and then again, "No. I'll be fine." He's not sure of that, really, but they're much closer to their destination than they are to either Mayfair or Soho; his stomach might be starting to settle, but still what sounds best right now is being out of the car as soon as possible, and the clean, salt-tinged seaside air may do him some good. As far as the drive back home that evening - well, he'll have to figure something out.

"Okay," Aziraphale says. "As long as you're sure." He pauses, for a moment, then pulls the keys out of the ignition and places them in Crowley's hand, closing his fingers over them. "Here," he says. "You won't be ill if you're driving, right?"

"Probably not," Crowley admits. He tries for something resembling a smile; it can't possibly be convincing, but Aziraphale smiles back.

"All right," Aziraphale says, opening his door. "Let's go."


End file.
